


My Love

by HurricanesWriting



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: (both in second section), (for reference the self harm is scratching), Aftermath of Possession, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief Nondescript Reference to Rape, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricanesWriting/pseuds/HurricanesWriting
Summary: Dragon tend to share specific endearments with their Riders and sometime vice versa.  Saphira calls Eragon “little one” and even Glaedr uses the term once.  But for Thorn and Murtagh, they always call each other “my love”.Based on an important headcanon to me.  Three times (of many) Murtagh and Thorn call each other "My Love"





	My Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is one chapter with three parts, divided with lines. The parts are nonconsecutive. The self harm and brief mention of rape (used as allegory, nothing sexual is referenced) are only in the middle part. Feel free to skip if you'd like.

Murtagh’s eye twitched and his focus faltered when something twinged in the back of his mind. His skin crawled in dread and he fought to keep himself in place. Nevertheless, he leaned back and to the side just a touch, drawn towards the depths of the castle by an inexorable pull. The king had sentenced him to magic drills for the remainder of the evening and it was grueling work. He’d spent hours standing in front of five chest high stones that Galbatorix had presented him with, each he had ensorcelled with countless wards. Murtagh’s task, to destroy all five, was a battle against both Galbatorix’s spell casting as well as the limits of his own strength. His hands were already cold and shaky from the energy expended on the first four and laboring over the fifth. Work, made harder, now, by the distracting pull at the back of his mind.

The king had started, he was sure of it. He could feel it in his muscles, his bones, and he spared a moment to curse Galbatorix with the foulest oaths he knew. Murtagh jerked towards the castle again, then forcibly refocused on the stone in front of him with a muttered curse. He reluctantly discarded the thought of abandoning the assignment; he knew from experience that it would only gain him punishment. The thought of pain didn’t deter him so much as the delay he knew it would cause. He _needed_ to be inside right now, and finishing the drills was the fastest way there.

Attempting to push aside the distraction, Murtagh threw together a new spell to try to shatter the remaining boulder. He cut it off when it had no effect. He started casting spells far faster and more recklessly than he had been before, spurred on by the feeling. Each failure chipped away at his energy and added to his franticness. Every minute dragged on for eternity and he wanted to howl in frustration at his lack of progress.

The stone showed no response to a hasty, somewhat desperate spell to raise its temperature, just like it had for all the preceding spells, but when Murtagh held his hand out, he felt the heat rolling off it in waves. Indulging in a hunch, he cast a spell to reverse the effect, making it as cold as he could as fast as he could. After a painfully tense moment, the stone cracked in two and then split further when the pieces hit the ground. Before Murtagh could feel relieved or proud, a wave of lightheadedness washed over him and he swayed dangerously. He managed to right himself and tried to focus his suddenly blurry vision. With careful consideration of his balance, Murtagh turned to the castle and made his way inside, leaving behind the ruble that remained of the five boulders.

He set as brisk of a pace as he could down the route that had become second nature to him. The staring crowds thinned out as he descended several staircases underground. He turned off one landing into an immense but bare hallway ending in a large pair of double doors. Adrenaline overcoming his exhaustion, he ran down the length of the hall and slipped inside before resealing the doors.

In a heartbeat, Murtagh crossed the room to Thorn’s back. He laid curled up on his side and pressed into the corner. Murtagh released a wordless keen of sympathy and anguish from his chest. He trailed his fingers along his scales as he made his way down his neck to his head, weaving their minds together all the while. He hopped over the end of Thorn’s snout the reach the space between his body and the corner, where he sat down. Thorn shifted to peer down at him, red eye glittering with hurt. Murtagh pulled in a pained gasp and rocked forward to press his forehead against Thorn’s jaw. _Oh, Thorn..._

Yet again, _(damn him,)_ Galbatorix used the strength of Eldunari to force Thorn’s growth. Through the deepened connection of their minds, they could both feel it; the twisting, cramping, spasms of muscles, the warping, aching, stretch of bones, the contorting, deforming, burn of joints and tendons. Murtagh rubbed his hands hard over Thorn’s broad cheek to give him some other sensation besides pain, but there was little else he could do but intertwine their hearts and minds and share in his agony.

_You don’t need to-_

_I need to,_ Murtagh interrupted. Thorn didn’t argue. Murtagh had made it abundantly clear long ago that he would always stay with him through this, no matter what Thorn did to persuade him to leave. He already felt guilty enough for not being here when it started, although he could tell by the pain that it hadn’t been going for long. He wasn’t leaving now.

Thorn whined loudly and Murtagh whined right back; they had long abandoned any shame of expressing weakness to each other. They couldn’t throw away the one release they had in this world of mounting misery they had found themselves in. Murtagh pressed a brief kiss onto Thorn’s scales and said, _I’m here, I’m with you, I won’t leave you alone again, my love._

_Murtagh, I’m sorry, I-_ Thorn’s thoughts fell apart as another wave of pain rolled through them both, and he shuddered and twisted. _It hurts!_ he cried out and Murtagh pressed himself against him as much as he could. If the best he could do was be here, he would make it count. Their forms melded like they were made for each other, like nothing else in the world could be so right.

_I know, my love, I know it does. I’ll end it, I promise. One day, we’ll taste freedom and you’ll never have to go through this again. I’ll never let anyone hurt you, I will protect you, I swear it. And until then, I’ll be with you; I won’t let you face this alone._

Murtagh words couldn’t end his pain, but he felt some of the tension leave Thorn’s body. He left behind his vain attempts to fight off the tormenting magic and turned himself over to his partner, trusting fully in Murtagh’s promise. Murtagh shuddered, ever aware of the weight of their fate, but unshaken in his resolve to change it.

They abandoned words and simply shared emotions across their bond, bracing for the long night ahead of them.

Each hour that dragged by was worse than the last. The king’s spells gave a mounting pain, every unnatural pull and stretch compounding upon the last without any chance of relief. They laid together in that desolate, lonely corner, with only the echoes of their own whimpers and cries to keep them company. Thorn slipped further and further away from him with the time, falling into incoherence underneath the suffocating agony. “My love,” Murtagh said aloud, with an edge of desperation.

“My love!” he called louder, trying to pull Thorn’s attention back to him, away from the pain, please, away from the pain. He embraced his scaly neck tighter, “My love,” and pressed in as close as possible, “my love, my love, my love-” He felt, faint but undeniable, Thorn listen and try to focus on the words. Emboldened, Murtagh continued louder and clearer, “my love, my love, my love,” repeating his affection, “my love, my love, my love,” to the partner of his heart. Before long, the words lost meaning, simply becoming a mantra, “my love my love my love my love” to reassure Thorn that he was here, that he loved him, that he would never leave him. “my love my love my love,” he said. _I Am Here With You._ he said.

Sometime within the deepest hours of the night, the pair passed out from sheer exhaustion, Murtagh still mumbling “my love,” as he slipped into sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Thorn pumped his wings frantically to balance himself after the titanic, rib bruising blow from the golden-elder-elf-bonded dragon sent him spiraling through the air. He watched with a sense of grim tragedy as Glaedr threw himself through the air after his fallen elf Rider. But he could not focus on that. On his back, Thorn felt Murtagh lurch, almost dropping his sword like Oromis had, and release a wounded cry. He wasn’t hurt, Thorn knew that, but what had just happened...

The jar of Glaedr’s magical blow had broken Galbatorix’s hold on Murtagh’s body, but the occurrence left Murtagh reeling. That the king could even do such a thing, that he could be brushed aside so easily within his own flesh; it was, he felt- _he felt-_

Well, Thorn didn’t have time to process what Murtagh felt because, as he watched, Glaedr abandoned his chase after Oromis and looped back up towards them.

In a single instant, all of his distractions cleared from Thorn’s mind. His injuries, his fears, his regrets all vanished to be replaced by an intense, single minded focus.

Murtagh had killed the elf Rider. The gold dragon was coming back to them. There was nothing he would not do to kill Murtagh and avenge his Rider. Murtagh was in no state to defend himself.

_Protect Murtagh._

Thorn plunged down to meet Glaedr, hoping to take advantage of the dragon’s blind rage. He swept across his front to one side, yowling involuntarily as he bit clean through the end of his tail. Yet the pain didn’t so much as chip his razor focus. Glaedr’s reckless attack was exactly what he needed. Thorn ripped out of his bite and drove himself above Glaedr from the side. Hindered by the forward momentum of his lunge, Glaedr couldn’t turn fast enough to stop Thorn as he snapped fast and calculated at the base of his head. His life flickered and died beneath his jaws. He let go.

Thorn felt his stomach roll as the pungent taste of dragon blood flooded over his tongue. He watched the lifeless form of the gold dragon fall grim and tragic into the buildings of Gil’ead below. He watched with grief, but not regret, and only for a moment. He heard Murtagh’s cry, worse than the first, and felt his agony and incoherence. The Partner-of-his-Heart-Mind-Soul needed him. He wheeled around and winged his way out of the city as quickly as he could, aimed towards an open stretch of ground a safe distance away from the battle.

He pulled out of his break-neck dive with just enough time to land safely. The landing burned at his wings joints horribly, but he barely even noticed the discomfort. But, as he touched down, he reflexively drove his tail against the hard ground and screamed at the sudden shock of white hot pain that went through him.

It was then that all the rest of his injuries came back to him, his bruised and broken ribs, his throbbing wings, and most importantly, the stump of his tail. While the rest he could have, and would have ignored, his tail could kill him if it was not seen too. Blood pulsed from the stump with the beat of his heart. Murtagh would always heal his wounds after a battle, but as he felt him slide gracelessly from his back and crumple to the ground, Thorn knew that he couldn’t heal him now. He couldn’t even reach Murtagh through the waves of despair coming off him.

Fury built in his chest and Thorn nearly howled at his own helplessness. Murtagh had always protected him, from the moment he hatched, and now that his Rider needed him more than ever, he was _still_ the one that needed saving! He _needed_ to be able to protect his Rider!

The emotions in his chest tightened, filling with heat, then suddenly rushed out through his limbs and dissipated into the air. He felt his ribs shift back into the proper places, his wing joints soothe over, and his tail stop bleeding and the open wound close. Thorn didn’t waste a moment to appreciate his use of magic, and instead turned to Murtagh. Without hesitation, he curled his head and neck around his form, enveloping him from all sides, and flared out his wings so that they enshrouded them. The world shrunk to just the two of them.

The sounds of anguished sobbing filled their dark, little refuge. Murtagh laid curled over his folded legs with his head pressed to the ground, hyperventilating through his tears. To Thorn’s alarm, he raised his hands and began to rake his nails furiously over the back of his neck. Within moments, it opened bloody furrows in his skin that he worsened with continued scratching, heedless to his own health.

Thorn let out a distressed wail. For the first time, he wished he was not a dragon, but a man. With their dexterous, delicate, and harmless little fingers, he could pull Murtagh’s hands away from his neck and hold them safely in place. As it was, all he could do was push his head up against Murtagh’s side, pinning his arm and restricting his movements. The scratching didn’t stop, but Thorn felt the action lose some of its urgency.

He began to reach his way deeper into Murtagh’s mind, fighting through the hysteria that suffocated it in thick clouds. Slowly but surely, he threaded their hearts and minds back together. He protected each thread-like link fiercely whenever Murtagh’s pain threatened to overwhelm him again, and forged them into iron once more. Thorn worked tirelessly, never letting himself falter or become distracted or discouraged. With their slow return to coherence, Murtagh’s thoughts grew worse.

Every moment he spent considering what had happened carved his agony deeper. The way it felt when Galbatorix seized his flesh, strength undiminished by the miles stretched between them; the nauseatingly brief amount of time he needed to take full control, crushing Murtagh’s defenses as easily as he might a gnat; the look on Oromis’ face when he was struck by a seizure and the way it transformed when his arm raised Zar’roc... And Thorn stayed with him through every thought and feeling.

_My love..._ Thorn sighed to his partner, sending him all his empathy and understanding. He would- _could_ never fault him his weeping. Their hearts beat as one and Thorn knew the hurt in Murtagh’s soul. And so, he knew that if there was ever something to weep over...

It was wrong. It was _violating._ Murtagh sobbed as the feeling replayed within their minds again, over and over. The king had forced his way into his mind and body, like a flaying knife under his skin, like a parasite in his blood. But he had gone deeper than skin or blood. His very nerves were severed from his will in a way he hadn’t even considered possible. His limbs, his magic, even his voice, all stolen and used like a puppet by someone else. He was made a phantom, merely spectating the governance of his own flesh.

It was a rape. Galbatorix robbed him of something that should _always_ be his own, should never be shared with anyone, unless at his discretion. Pure and simple, undeniable rape on a level he had never fathomed before, his body’s violent rejection worse than it had ever been in the past.

Murtagh’s fingers flexed hard again, tearing new paths into the bloody mess of his neck. He felt filthy, tainted, like mud had replaced his blood and dirt had wormed its way into his skin. He was profaned, ruined, and a wave of revulsion and loathing of himself threatened to drown him. He clawed at his neck with renewed fury, desperate to spill the filth from his veins.

Thorn pulled back a measure from his mind with a wail. _My love!_ he cried, shoving his jaw harder against Murtagh’s arm, shifting his hand away from his neck. He had to resist the instinct to fuse their minds fully; he couldn’t get swept up in Murtagh’s anguish. He needed to keep his head if he wanted to help him.

_My love, my love, my love,_ he chanted. _Never filthy, never tainted, never ruined. He could never do that to you, no one could. Their transgressions will never define you. And it was wrong,_ WRONG, _but that does not make_ you _wrong!_ He crooned gently to his soulmate. _Don’t blame or belittle yourself for this; none of this was your fault. This does not make you lesser._

_But, I-_ Murtagh began, forcibly stilling his hand, _I’m defiled, I- I_ am _lesser, I-_

NO! _Not to me,_ never _to me!_ Thorn shouted. _I love you, love you as much as I possibly can, with every fiber of my being and every piece of my heart. Which is just as much as I loved you this morning, which is just as much as I loved you when I hatched, which is just as much as I shall love you in my final moments. Nothing can ever change this or make you lesser. My_ LOVE...

His declaration rang through their minds, the word resonating across their link with infinite echoes. Within it was Thorn’s affection, admiration, dedication, passion, devotion, caring, loyalty, trust- truly, his _love_ \- of Murtagh.

Murtagh let his arms drop fully to his sides and went quiet for the first time. He raised his head from the ground and fresh trails of tears streamed down his cheeks. After a moment, he took in several loud, aching gasps and started to cry again, though not from pain this time. He sat up and threw himself against Thorn’s head, embracing him as best he could. Thorn crooned again and murmured, _My love, my love, my love,_ across their bond. He started to relax at the feeling of Murtagh giving himself over and trusting in him and his love.

Within the following minutes, Murtagh slowly stopped crying, the tension started to leave their bodies, and grim, bleak reality started to set back in.

Involuntarily, their thoughts turned to the events of the battle. Oromis and Glaedr, the last Rider and dragon of old, were dead at their hands. The thought brought with it rolling clouds of remorse and grief. They had been enraged when they first saw the pair rise towards Gil’ead: yet another self proclaimed freedom fighter that had done nothing to fight for _their_ freedom when they had needed it the most. Yet another disappointment expecting them to give mercy when they had failed to reach out before their enslavement robbed them of the option.

And yet, neither of them could deny the traitorous spark of hope that had flickered in their hearts when they saw that resplendent, golden dragon in the clouds. They hadn’t helped them before... but maybe, just maybe, they could now. Maybe this battle would be their last, and these legends, these heroes on high, would be able to free them!

Seemed only fitting that their hands would be the ones to murder them only minutes later.

_You’d think we’d have learned better by now, than to hope,_ Murtagh thought with bitter humor.

Both Murtagh and Thorn refused to wallow in regret, however. Their actions had been undeniably forced and they would not drown themselves in shame over choices they were not given. But they had killed Oromis and Glaedr, no matter how unwillingly, and they mourned that loss.

“What have we done,” Murtagh murmured aloud.

_Something terrible,_ Thorn admitted.

After a moment, Thorn shifted his head and uncurled his stiff neck. It was difficult to judge, but he thought that perhaps half an hour had passed since they abandoned the battle. Slowly and cautiously, Thorn brought his head out from underneath his wings. He blinked rapidly to adjust to the moonlight washing over the field, then examined their surroundings.

In the distance, in the direction of the elves’ war camp, a group of them stood staring at them, approaching slowly. Thorn snorted and started to rise. _The battle is lost,_ he said, for it was, he could tell. _We shouldn’t linger._

Murtagh rose stiffly and turned in the direction Thorn looked, rubbing his sore eyes. He frowned at the elves. Thorn told him, _We need to go back._

The words hit Murtagh like a blow with twice as impact as any hit he took in the battle. He doubled over and clapped a hand over his mouth, freezing in place to fight the sudden urge to retch. The thought of going back, _now,_ to confront Galbatorix face-to-face, was damn near unbearable. Instantly, Thorn wanted to take back the words, tell Murtagh that they never had to go back, not if he didn’t want to, but he couldn’t. It would be a lie. They _did_ need to go back, regardless of what they wanted, and he could do nothing to change that. So he merely hummed and sent Murtagh his sympathy.

After several moments, Murtagh straightened and lowered his hand to reveal a twisted grimace. He looked again at the elves and said, “It would be dangerous to loiter here any longer.”

As he climbed up Thorn’s saddle he said, _Don’t let me go, my love. For without you, I will surely shatter._

_I will always protect you, my love,_ Thorn vowed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Everything was quiet as Thorn coasted along the warm air currents, sparse beats of his wings keeping them level. The world had a surreal quality that it hadn’t that morning, and Murtagh felt unsure what he should think or feel. Now that he finally had his freedom, what he had sought for so long, he realized that he didn’t remember what to do with it. He’d forgotten what freedom was supposed to feel like.

Murtagh felt Thorn’s muscles flex beneath him as he flew absently through the sky. Their minds were linked but little crossed the bond for they had little to share. A blankness filled their minds, a silence unbroken by tacit agreement.

Thorn’s thoughts were even quieter than Murtagh’s. While Murtagh had tasted freedom once before, short and bittersweet as it had been, Thorn had no such experience. He knew nothing but the slavery he was born into. The slavery now gone.

Murtagh twisted around and peered behind them for the seventh time. This sky, like the preceding six, showed no glittering blue forms following them, no imposing black citadel shattering the horizon, nothing, but wisps of cloud and a pair of hunting goshawks.

It sunk in to some still functioning, logical part of his brain that they had truly left Uru’baen behind, unchallenged, unmolested, and unshackled.

It felt... unreal.

Murtagh turned back around. He set his hands on top of Thorn’s scales and steadied himself with a deep breath. Carefully, cautiously, he declared, _The king is dead,_ into their silence.

_Galbatorix is dead,_ he repeated. _The king is dead. Galbatorix is dead,_ he said, this time in the ancient language. Each time got a bit easier. Thorn rumbled but said nothing.

Murtagh nudged at Thorn’s mind, wordlessly, but with enough intention that Thorn would understand. He tensed, but did nothing, and Murtagh nudged at him again. He hesitated, then said haltingly, _Galbatorix is dead._

_Galbatorix is dead. The king is dead,_ Thorn stated, also with a switch to the ancient language. As the words rang through their minds, the blankness started to fill, replaced with a shaky, nervous energy slowly spreading through them. A grin began to creep across Murtagh’s lips.

He swung around, surveying their surrounding again, with excitement now instead of trepidation. The world felt fresh and reborn beneath them as he looked upon it with new perspective. Thorn jostled him with a shiver, wriggling from head to shortened tail. Murtagh couldn’t help his wobbly smile widening at the feeling, stretching so far his cheeks ached.

With the feeling of leaping off a cliff, Murtagh whispered, _“We’re free.”_

The result was like shattering a bottle holding a storm. The instant the words left him, Thorn roared thunderously, swooping in an arc through the air. Murtagh joined him, whooping shamelessly, then throwing his head back to laugh like he hadn’t in so long. “FREE! FREE, FREE, WE’RE FREE, YOU WRETCH, AND NEVER FORGET IT!” Murtagh bellowed to the world, for once, not fearing its wrath. He burst into laughter again as Thorn roared in agreement, feeling for the first time that he had control over himself, no longer just a victim of fate.

_MY LOVE!_ Thorn shouted to him, throwing himself into a full upside down loop that made Murtagh holler in exhilaration. No adrenaline left him when the leveled out, only continued to build under the best feeling in the world.

_“My love!”_ Murtagh called in response then laughed breathlessly. Murtagh relished in his own liberation, but it could never compare to the pleasure he took in Thorn’s. The young dragon born into bondage finally freed. Murtagh had spent countless hours agonizing over the fact that the only choice Thorn had made free of Galbatorix’s will was to choose Murtagh as his Rider. And it was that very choice that tied him to Murtagh’s cursed fate. Plagued by shame and guilt and remorse, Murtagh couldn’t remember the number of times he had promised Thorn freedom; that no matter how, no matter when, they would find it one day.

And now, with every promise standing fulfilled, Murtagh’s joy was uncontainable.

_“My love, my love, you’re free, we’re free!”_ he cried. _Everything you’ve ever deserved, from the moment you hatched, and I will never let anyone take it from you, my love my love-_

They felt weightless- fears, guilts, regrets, pains- all burned away. None of them stood a chance in the face of their happiness. Even the burden of the battle of Gil’ead had eased. Their exchange with Glaedr, brief as it was, did a world of good. Murtagh felt the painful weight of killing one of his own kind finally fall off Thorn’s back. And now! Knowing that there were hundreds more dragon eggs out there, just waiting to hatch! They felt lightheaded from it all.

_My love, my love-!_

_My love, oh, my love!_

They went back and forth like yammering crows, so overwhelmed that they were lost for any words but the ones they held deepest in their hearts. They said the words as a celebration, a proclamation. They made it through this, alive, together, unbroken, and they would never go back.

Eventually Murtagh broke their endless call and response with a laugh, leaned back in his saddle, and tipped his head back to study the sky. “My love, there is a whole world I have to show you.” He felt Thorn perk up in eagerness and he beamed.

“There’s so many little things you haven’t seen!” he started, rocking forward. “I want to show you the smallest wild flowers that grow in the great plains, and the birds that walk on trees upside down! Sometimes, you can find spiderwebs woven in perfect circles, and in the morning, when they’re covered in dew, they look prettier than the finest lace.”

“And- and the big things too! You haven’t seen the Hadarac Desert; there’s not much there but heat and sand but you should see it anyway. But the Beor Mountains! They’re extraordinary! Mountains higher than you can fathom, so tall that more than half is covered in snow! Imagine testing how high we can fly against those titans-”

_And we’ll be able to fly together whenever we want-_

“Where ever we want, without-”

_Some bastard telling us when and where we’re-_

“Allowed! Yes! And you will grow however slow or fast you please-”

_And no one or nothing will be able to rush us in anything because we have all the time in the world and the freedom to do whatever we want with it!_

Murtagh sighed breathlessly. He knew it was useless to talk aloud as he spoke to Thorn with his mind, but he couldn’t help himself. He overflowed with energy. He felt like a child again.

“And when autumn comes, oh, it’ll be magnificent! The leaves of the trees turn stunning colors- reds, oranges, yellows- and whole forests look like they’re topped with fire. Oh, I can’t wait to see it from the air, it’ll look stunning, I’m sure of it!”

“Oh, oh, and you should see the auroras! I’ve never seen them before, but I’ve heard. These great bands of color show up in the night sky and shift and dance like ribbons! I know they show up in the north; we’ll hunt down the best spot and once we find it, we’ll fly up and dress ourselves in all the colors. Oh, and snow! You’ve never even _seen_ snow! It’s still summer, but we’ll find a place come winter where it covers everything, doubles mountains and drowns forests! You’ll love it; we’ll make sculptures and forts and burrows and snow houses! And when it melts, we’ll-”

He couldn’t tell if Thorn really listened to his words, but he knew he listened to the joy in his heart, and Murtagh felt the joy in his, and it was enough.


End file.
